Definition of a Perfect Thanksgiving
by Just-Plain-Roo
Summary: Thanksgiving '09. Blair's determined that her Thanksgiving will be perfect, but, as with every other year, things get in the way. Mildly fluffy. Minor Spoilers. Pairings: Blair/Chuck. Mentions of all other cannon. ONESHOT


**Disclaimer -- Don't own, wish more then anything that I did.**

**A/N -- So it's been a while, I've been on holidays for the past few weeks and I haven't had much time to write, or much energy to, but I'm back to school in a few days and back to my normal routine. Which, for me, means erratic and crazy ;p**

**I begain work on the new chapter of TMWY, but I found that after weeks away from my laptop my fingers were slow at typing and my writing was sloppy. I wrote this to get back into the spirit of my writing, and decided to test myself by exploring a new tense and style. I don't know if it worked out properly, my writing being rusty as it is, and originally I wasn't even going to post it. But I decided, why not? It's incredibly long, and basically tells nothing other then one Thanksgiving, with tiny bits of fluff echoed through, and definitely not my best work... but who cares, haha. You gotta start somewhere. **

**Anyways, read and review. Feedback, positive or negative, motivates me to write more. So even if it's a 'stick to what you know', or a 'hurry up and update your stories already' -- it's very much appreciated.**

**PS -- what is up with merging the two GG worlds? I mean, was it really even necessary? Both were significant archives on their own, they did not need to be stuck together!**

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* * *

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**Impasse (noun): a situation in which no progress can be made or no advancement is possible;**

Chuck pops a strawberry into his mouth as he watches his girlfriend dancing around the kitchen with a wide grin on her face.

"Somebody's happy," he notes, reaching for another strawberry and frowning as she slaps his hand away.

"Those are for the guests," she scolds, though still beaming at him.

"I _am_ a guest."

"Not an important one," she counters, placing the bowl of strawberries to her left with the rest of the desserts.

"Ouch, Waldorf, that hurts." She rolls her eyes at his sarcasm, and the glint in her eye dares him to come within a foot of the chocolate covered berries.

"Touch those strawberries again and I'll show you the meaning of the word hurt. _Bass_." Still with the smile, though it's twisted upwards so that it resembles more of a mocking smirk then it does a genuine gesture.

It's a face that only Chuck Bass used to be able to pull off with grace, mostly used whenever Bart introduced his only son to some prospective clients and he was required to 'play nice'.

He can't help but smile, _genuinely_, himself at the realization that in the six months since they'd begun dating officially (and the two years of cat-and-mouse before that) Blair had adopted many of his traits and habits.

She's always held the same air of superiority that he himself possesses, but now it is accompanied with a smugness and a sense of self-propriety that she could have only learnt from countless hours spent with him, schmoozing both society ladies and board members alike.

Likewise with the smirk. Back when everyone believed her to be the perfect virginal princess, she rarely had need to use anything other then a modest smile and flattering tone when speaking to her mother's friends and clients. But ever since she'd embraced her inner bitch (and he liked to think that he had a hand in that) her demure facade had disappeared, and so too did the empty compliments. In their place was a raised eyebrow, an expertly crafted smirk, and a lilting tone that disguised the fact that those previous compliments that she used to bestow, were now cleverly masked insults.

The thing that became truly apparent, however, was the scotch. Whereas before he knew that she loathed the strong tasting whiskey, since they had first come together in the back of a limo and she tasted it on his lips (and, subsequently, became intoxicated) a glass has never been far from her reach, beating out even martinis for the coveted spot of her favorite drink. Granted, she'll only ever have a maximum of two glasses (three, or sometimes even four, if she's in a good mood and they are alone) and even that makes her ever so slightly tipsy.

She has always been a lightweight, but he has yet to persuade her to raise her alcohol tolerance. She is always afraid that, while doing so, she'll get too drunk and blurt out something embarrassing and he will ridicule her for the rest of her days. He can't confirm or deny this, and so they remain at an impasse.

(He's found that he loves impasses, they're like fights, but thankfully not as serious, and so he gets all of the make-up sex with a lot less of the angst)

Now, however, her gaze has turned suspicious. "Why are you smiling at me?"

He blinks up at her innocently, "I'm not allowed to smile?"

"Not when I'm threatening you."

A pause.

"Stop smiling at me. It's freaking me out!" She moves the baking tins over to her workspace, eyes never leaving his as she probes them suspiciously.

"I'm merely admiring the view." His gaze rakes slowly over her body, taking in her curves, and noticing with relish that her purple, silk, dress folded in all of the right places.

Her cheeks flush and she lowers her voice, "Well, don't!" She snaps, "Daddy's just in the next room and he will not appreciate you leering at me like that."

"C'mon, Waldorf, he can't honestly believe you're still a v-"

She clamps a hand over his mouth, "I don't know whether he does or not, and I'd rather not find out!" She hisses, her eyes darting towards the doorway to make sure that her father wasn't in the immediate vicinity. "I mean it, Basshole, no jokes, no snide comments, no innuendos... and absolutely no giving him the impression that you have touched any part of my anatomy other than my hand. Do you understand?"

He bites down on her fingers in response.

She gasps and draws her hand away, staring at him disbelievingly. "Did you just _bite_ me?"

He winks and reaches across her for another strawberry, taking pleasure in the fact that her father has just entered the kitchen, smiling amiably at both, and she can't do anything with him in the room.

Chuck raises an eyebrow at her as he bites into the strawberry, daring her to say something.

She glowers at him, her dark eyes promising that there will be consequences later.

(He can't help but wonder if his wanting to eat strawberries, and her not wanting him to, could possibly be defined as an impasse)

* * *

**Shopping (verb): to examine goods or services with intent to buy;**

"BlairBear why don't you go and get the pumpkin mix and we'll get started on our pie," Harold suggests, rolling up his sleeves and clapping his hands together.

He is smiling, laughing and joking with ease. Chuck is still somewhat wary of the man's seemingly constant joviality. Not once has his smile lifted since he had arrived yesterday morning, and between he and his partner Roman, the usually stony silence of the Waldorf penthouse (read: mausoleum) has been infinitely lifted. Even Cyrus Rose's absurd exuberance can not compare to the way in which the naive lawyer and the French model manage to bring a smile to even Eleanor Waldorf's – Ice-queen extraordinair – freshly botoxed features.

He had always found the man easy to get along with, back when he still lived in New York, but he had never fully realized just how different Harold Waldorf was from Bart Bass until now. While Bart didn't have a paternal bone in his body, Harold conversed easily with his daughter, complimenting her on various aspects of her appearance, while teasing about her distinct lack of cookery skills at the same time.

Chuck had opted to stay far away from the mechanical side of actually making the food, believing that such things as chefs and caterers were invented for a reason. Instead he leans against the counter, observing, and passing sarcastic comments every time Blair ends up hindering the cooking process as opposed to helping it. She snaps back a retort, he smirks, she glares, and Harold intervenes before their bickering gains momentum. It's an easy process, and much preferable to sitting with Cyrus, Eleanor, and Roman as they finish up last minute details in the dining room.

Why Blair had insisted on his arrival at promptly nine AM that morning was a mystery, especially when he refused to be of any help to anyone, but she had made it clear that his being here hours early was necessary.

(Secretly he suspects that she was just in need of his company; she had spent the past two nights in her own bed, alone, due to her father's early arrival yesterday morning and his staying over last night. Though she would never admit it, he knows that she misses sleeping next to him at night and waking up with him in the mornings – as had become routine over the past six months. His suite at the Palace is now home to as much of her stuff as it is his)

Surprisingly, he finds that he's enjoying himself. Harold doesn't treat him any differently then he did when he and Blair were younger and strictly platonic, much to his surprise. If Chuck ever has a daughter (and that's still a big _if_, much as Blair likes to believe otherwise), he knows that he won't be a fraction of as accommodating as Blair's father has been to him. Especially with his reputation. But he has been nothing but natural, accepting Chuck as easily as he did Nate.

(On the downside, he doesn't get a nickname. Somehow Bass-the-Ass doesn't quite match up to Nate-the-Great)

And what's more, not once has he called Chuck aside and questioned him about his intentions toward Blair, his beloved only daughter. He seemed to have taken one look at the two of them together, and wordlessly given them his blessing.

(That being said, there's still twenty-two hours and fifteen minutes until Harold's plane takes off at JFK, and until then Chuck plans to never be caught in a room alone with him if he can help it – admitting that he loves her to _Blair_ is one thing, but having in-depth discussions about his feelings with her _father_ is to be avoided at all costs)

He finds it especially fascinating the way that Blair operates when she's around her father. Being her friend when they were younger, and as such privy to many interactions between Father and Daughter, he is quick to realize that the way she acts now has changed a lot since before. Before, she had always had the "perfect princess" routine down to a fine art, complete with batting eyelashes and doe eyes. Now though, she's toned it down a lot.

While she is not blatantly flaunting the fact that she is not that innocent anymore, nobody notices better then he that her eyes sparkle with mischief, her smile is somewhat sly, and her dress is cut far lower then she usually permits while her father is visiting. Also, the bracelet her father had given her for her nineteenth birthday is paired not with the matching earrings, but with her favorite diamond studs that Chuck had given her, and the Erickson Beamon necklace from her seventeenth that she so loved. Even her signature ruby ring, the one that her father had given her right before he left for France, is missing. Forgotten on the dresser of suite 1812.

Chuck knows that Harold had really hurt her when he criticized her because of the whole Miss Carr/Dan Humphrey debacle, and that she had vowed since then to be more herself around everyone – her father included – and being herself meant being snobbish, conceited, bitchy, catty, deceitful and manipulative... Basically all of the things that made her Blair, and he can't understand for the life of him how someone could fault her for that. Especially when in his eyes she is so utterly perfect.

(Though he does admit that she has to have some degree of insanity to ever, _ever_, question the knowledge that she is beautiful. If there was one thing that he would change about her, it was her insecurities. Well, actually, now that he thinks about it, he wouldn't mind stripping her of her more prudish tendencies – her refusal to have sex in public for one. And maybe, if he's changing things, maybe her love for all things Audrey could... _disappear_ too; if she makes him watch that damn movie one more time he'll do more than consider burning every copy in existence – hers included)

And so, her newfound honesty taken into consideration, it is with her usual bossiness and _shrillness_ that she completes her father's request.

"Dorota! Bring me the pumpkin mix!"

Harold winces, Chuck smirks, and Blair remains oblivious to the varying reactions of the two men in her life because Dorota has just entered the kitchen with a very guilty expression on her face. And no tin of pumpkin in sight.

"Miss Blair..." Dorota says worriedly, "I afraid I forget to buy pumpkin mix. I look in pantry and it not there."

Blair's eyes widen, ""Dorota! How could you forget to buy the pumpkin? You know that it's mine and Daddy's tradition!"

Dorota looks even guiltier, "Well, Vanya arrange to meet me to help me with the shopping, and we start talking, and I get distracted... I very sorry, Miss Blair." She takes off her apron, "I go and buy it now."

"I knew that Vanya was a bad influence on you," Blair lectures, "Ever since you started dating him you've been forgetful and erratic!"

Dorota purses her lips, taking grave offense on behalf of her new beau. "Let us not talk about _bad influences_, Miss Blair." She glares at Chuck. "At least _I_ come home to _my_ bed every night." She sniffs haughtily and reties her apron. "You get your own pumpkin mix." She stalks out of the room, pink feather duster in hand.

It takes everything in him not to laugh as he sees Harold bite his lip, probably also struggling with withheld mirth, and as Blair gapes after the maid in shock. The look on her face is priceless, her face clouded with confusion as she tries to process the fact that her usually meek, and soft-spoken employee of many years had just turned her own insult back on her.

"Did she just...?" Her voice trails off as she blinks rapidly.

"Insult you?" He supplies, "Yes. Though if it makes you feel any better, I believe that most of it was intended for my benefit."

He'll never, _ever_, regret setting her up with Vanya, because if she's spending the evening with the doorman, she's not spending it harassing him about corrupting her 'Miss Blair', or preaching to him about God and sex and _marriage_.

(He doesn't even want to think about _that_ for another ten years. Possibly seven. Definitely five... and a half. Maybe)

"But... she's..." Blair splutters, "She's Dorota. _My_ Dorota."

"Apparently she's sensitive about Vanya," Harold says mildly. He checks on the turkey, turning the temperature in the oven down slightly, and then inspects the varying desserts. Even without the pie, there is still a great range. Mostly prepackaged, like the strawberries, some that Dorota had baked yesterday. "I think we have more than enough desserts to go around. We don't really need the pie"

Blair's neck snaps around so fast Chuck's sure he heard a crack. "But, Daddy!" She pouts, "It's our tradition. We always have pumpkin pie on Thanksgiving."

"I know, BlairBear, but I can't possibly leave the food while it's in the oven, and I have so much else to do." Harold tells her, "So unless you want to go-"

"I can't go. I have to help you."

Chuck snorts, "Because you're helping so much."

Her eyes flash dangerously at the slight, but then she takes in his casual stance and his empty hands, and relaxes, shooting him a loving smile. "I am, as a matter of fact. But," she bats her eyelashes, "you on the other hand..."

He sees where this is going, "Forget it, Waldorf, Chuck Bass does not do _supermarkets_."

Her face hardens and she says sweetly, though through gritted teeth, "I know what you won't be doing _ever again_ if you don't go and get me my pumpkin."

He raises an eyebrow and chances a look at Harold, who blanches, because even he can't pretend not to know exactly what his daughter meant. And if there was ever a doubt before that he knew that she wasn't a virgin, there certainly wasn't any longer. Blair freezes, her response so much a second nature to her that it fell from her tongue without stopping to think.

"On second thoughts," she says quickly, not meeting her father's eye. "Why don't we both go. That way I can make sure that you buy the right stuff." She plants a hasty kiss on Harold's cheek before grabbing Chuck's hand and dragging him from the room. Elbowing him not-so-discreetly as he begins to laugh.

* * *

Chuck looks around the grocery store dubiously, scanning for a sign that said 'tinned pumpkin'. When he doesn't immediately see one, he turns to Blair, who looked to be doing the exact same thing.

"Well, Betty Crocker, where do we go from here?" He asks mockingly.

She looks at him, feigning confidence. "We move from aisle to aisle until we find what we're looking for, obviously."

He frowns, "Isn't there like some index that we could use?"

"This is a supermarket, not a JCPenneys."

"Funnily enough, I've never been in either." He shoots back, looking disgruntled and definitely out of his element in a purple pinstripe suit, cream silk shirt, and pink tie, surrounded by neon signs and colorful (tacky), display stands.

"And I have?" She rummages around in her Chanel clutch for the shopping list that Dorota had given her smugly as they walked out the door.

"Surely you must have been in one of these at least once." He looks at the many last-minute shoppers distrustfully.

"No, Bass. Like you, I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. Dorota does the shopping or else the caterer's supply the food." Blair reminds him, before pausing. "Wait, actually I think I have been in one. I remember that Serena urgently needed tampons once when we were shopping, and the supermarket was closer than a drugstore." She smiles at him triumphantly, pleased that she had one-upped him.

Chuck looks mildly grossed out, "Thank you for that lovely visual, Waldorf, I really needed to hear about my sis' cycle."

She appears affronted, "You asked."

"So what do we need?" He asks, changing the subject as she studies the list in her hand.

"The pumpkin mix, basil, hazelnuts, pecans, rasberries, cream, and cinnamon." Blair lists, nodding to a stack of baskets. "You might want to get one of those." She walks forward without waiting for an answer, heading for the aisle that says 'Dairy'.

He mutters something under his breath, but grabs the basket and hurries after her, holding the basket at arms length.

(Because who knows who had touched that thing before him?)

He finds her standing in front of a refrigerator, two cartons of cream in hand as she stares at a third. "Which one do I buy?"

"Does it matter?" He's been in the store five minutes and already he's bored. And possibly contaminated. "Just pick one and let's go."

"Yes, it matters." She tells him, still frowning as she puts both cartons back and picks up two different ones. "There's clotted, double, low fat, full fat, whipping cream... which do I choose?"

"What are you using it for?"

"I don't know. Dorota just handed me the list, she didn't specify on why we needed them." Blair points out, still scanning the shelves.

Chuck sighs, and takes both cartons out of her hands and puts them in the basket. He quickly scans through the different variations, making sure to pick one of each (and always the most expensive version) and put them in the basket.

"We're getting all of them?"

"Why not? You don't know which to buy, and it's not as if we can't afford it."

She blinks. "Good point."

He smirks. "What's next?"

"Basil, but it doesn't say whether it should be fresh or dried..."

Twenty minutes, two full baskets, and every variation of ingredient later, they were queuing up at the checkout, ignoring the funny looks that people were giving them. The clerk looks bewildered as Chuck hands over his credit card with a flourish and as Blair supervises the packing of her bags. She flirts with another employee until he was practically tripping over himself to carry her bags for her, as she strolls behind him, arm in arm with her boyfriend.

They hail a taxi (Chuck had given his driver, Arthur, the day off to spend Thanksgiving with his family) and settle together in the back seat.

"Are you staying at the suite tonight?" He asks casually, playing with her fingers absently.

She looks at him, "With Daddy in the house? Forget it. And you can't stay over either, Daddy and Roman's room is right across the hall from mine. What would they say if they caught you sneaking out in the morning?"

"I don't know, Blair, maybe 'good morning'?"

"Stop trying to be smart-"

He interrupts, "I don't have to try."

"--Bass." She finishes, rolling her eyes and leaning her head on his shoulder. "You can't stay, and that's that."

"You should hurry up and move out already," Chuck grumbles.

Blair doesn't look up, "Technically I have."

"I don't mean the dorm, you haven't stayed there for more than a night anyway, even after we got rid of Georgina." Chuck tucks a curl behind her ear, turning away from her to stare out of the window. "I meant somewhere else."

She freezes against him, sitting up straight so that she is looking directly at him. "Is that an invitation?"

He looks at her, a smile barely concealed as he chooses his next words carefully. "Consider it a suggestion."

Her eyes shine with happiness, but she plays it cool as she lays her head on his shoulder and links their fingers again. "In that case... we'll see." She pauses. "As long as it's not Murray Hill."

He laughs, planting a kiss on the top of her head as she curls in towards him.

(He'll take that as a yes)

* * *

**Inebriation (noun): a temporary state resulting from excessive consumption of alcohol;**

They are still smiling and holding hands as they enter the penthouse, the doorman entrusted with the handling of their purchases.

"You can put those in the kitchen," Blair nods in the direction, frowning as she hears giggling from behind the same door. Walking ahead, she pushes open the door to find Serena spinning around in circles, arms flung out at either side, head tilted toward the ceiling. Nate is sitting on a stool at the counter, laughing along and encouraging her as Harold watches on in amusement.

"Blair! Chuck!" Serena cries, dropping her hands and rushing to greet them. Still dizzy, and very drunk, she ends up crashing into Chuck, sending them both hurtling into the doorman who falls to the floor, bags still in hand.

"Whoopsie," Serena claps her hand to her mouth, giggling as Harold apologizes profusely to the disgruntled doorman, giving him a generous tip and steering him towards the door. Serena leans forward, still clutching at Chuck, and whispers in his ear. "Don't tell B, but I think I'm a little drunk." She makes an elaborate 'Shh' gesture, almost poking Chuck in the eye as her finger tries to meet her lips.

Holding her arms firmly so that she can not do anymore damage, Chuck smirks, "Sorry, Sis, I think she's already figured it out."

Blair looks at both her and Nate furiously, "What the hell is going on? Nate! I told you to watch her."

"I did!" Nate insists, hiccuping. "I watched her do shots," hiccup, "and dance on tables." He grins lopsidedly, blonde hair more than a little tussled.

Harold picks up all of the dropped items, "It appears that Nate, too, has had a little too much to drink."

"You don't say," Blair snaps. She grabs Serena's arm and begins to pull her from the room. "Sober him up," She instructs her boyfriend, shooting Nate a glare. "I want him to be lucid when I yell at him. I'll get her changed, I don't have time to put her in the shower." She leaves, Serena twirling after her.

(He considers making some comment about being more than happy to bathe Serena for her, as he usually would, but one look at Blair's taught features and he decides not to push it)

Chuck raises an eyebrow at his best friend, who is blinking back at him guiltily, looking a good deal more sober than before at the thought of Blair's wrath. "I hope last night was worth it, Nathaniel." He takes out the blender, and begins gathering ingredients. "Because Blair doesn't take kindly to people ruining her 'perfect Thanksgiving'."

"Chuck?" Harold frowns, looking at all they had bought. "Why on earth did you and Blair buy so much of everything?"

"Blair didn't know which type to get so we got them all," He explains, busy making his in famous hangover cure for Nate. Luckily for all of them, it didn't look like Nate had had as much to drink as Serena. It only ever takes a few shots to get him drunk, and usually he is too out of it to consider drinking more, allowing him to sober up a lot faster.

"I see," Harold lined up all the different cream and tried to come up with a way to integrate them all into Thanksgiving dinner without giving anybody a heart attack. "And neither of you thought to call and ask?"

Chuck clears his throat loudly and doesn't reply.

(Phones... why didn't he think of that?)

He practically has to force feed Nate the green sludge-like drink, as Nate groans and makes gagging noises. When it is all but empty, and Nate looks like he can take no more, Chuck sets the glass down with a bang, watching as the green concoction slides down the glass heavily, leaving a thick layer of slime on the rim and edges.

"What _is_ that?" Harold asks, looking at it with interest.

Chuck looks at him seriously, "Believe me, you don't want to know."

(Truthfully, he's not even sure that he could tell him if he wanted too. The recipe varies every time he makes it, depending on the ingredients on hand and the amount which he has. This particular batch contained a portion of everything they had bought, plus copious amounts of vodka and juice)

Both men watch as Nate makes a break for the toilet, hand clutched over his mouth.

Nate had just settled back in his stool again, looking considerably worse for wear, when Blair came stomping down the back staircase. A freshly changed Serena in tow.

She had dressed Serena in one of her old dresses, and, as such, the hem that came down to Blair's knees, was up around Serena's thighs, and her much larger bust was straining against the blue fabric. She was lathered in Chanel No.5, in an effort to mask the smell of the alcohol and the cigarettes from the bars and clubs that she had Nate had spent the night in were in, and Blair had tactfully swapped her high heels for flats.

"I don't feel so good," Nate groans, placing his head in his hands as Blair settled Serena beside him.

"And who's fault is that?" Blair accuses, turning to face him. "Remind me again, Archibald, what was your _one_ job?"

He winces at her angry tone, "I was supposed to keep Serena out of trouble."

"Exactly! You know that she's still sore from her break-up with Baizen a few days ago, what were you thinking letting her get drunk and party?"

"I wasn't... thinking?" Nate ventures, guessing that she was waiting for an answer. "I'm sorry?"

Blair scoffs, "Nate Archibald not thinking? Perish the thought!"

(He can't help but smirk as he watches his girlfriend lecture her once-upon-a-time-Prince-Charming. He doesn't think that the sight of it will ever get old)

Serena interjects, slurping the strong coffee that Harold had made for her, still on a high from a mixture of alcohol, excitement, and sugar. "It's not Natie's fault, B. I made him come with me."

"Seeing the scrap of clothing you were wearing last night, I doubt that he needed much convincing." Chuck replies wryly.

Blair looks at the clock and sighs, "We have just under an hour until Lily and the others arrive, if we keep giving her coffee she should be sober enough to get through dinner without anyone finding out." She looks at her father beseechingly, "Can we make the pumpkin pie now?"

"Of course sweetheart," Harold replenishes Serena's cup and puts down the pot, he puts an arm around Blair's shoulder's and squeezes gently. "Don't worry, it will all be perfect."

Blair relaxes, smiling contently.

And then Chuck's phone buzzes, causing her to tense up again. She snatches it out of his hand before he has a chance to answer it. "No business today!" She insists. "You promised!" She checks the caller ID. "Who's A. Neely?"

Chuck reaches for the phone, "Someone from work." He says vaguely. "I need to take that call, Waldorf."

"Tough." She holds it away from him.

"Give me the phone, Blair."

She raises a brow. "_No_, _Chuck_." She silences the call by pressing reject, and places it in her clutch, which she then places on the shelf below her.

"Blair-"

"You promised me no business on Thanksgiving." Blair says firmly, folding her arms across her chest. "I have to share you every other day of the year, Thanksgiving, Christmas, my birthday, your birthday, and New Years are off limits. You _promised_."

Neither one's eyes move from the other's, staring each other down, until finally Chuck nods.

The tense silence that follows is broken by Serena, who is staring intently at the clock, watching the hands move. "Why do clocks always have to make that tick-tock noise? Why can't it be something fun... like every time the hands move it plays a note of your favorite song? That would be so cool!"

* * *

**Tradition (Noun): a specific practice of long standing;**

"Remind me again why we are spending Thanksgiving at the Waldorfs?" Rufus asks, frowning as they came in sight of the large apartment block.

"It's tradition," Lily tells him. "We used to eat here every year before Serena went to boarding school."

"That, and Chuck informed us that he was spending Thanksgiving with Blair, after Blair informed him." Eric adds. "Mom really didn't have a choice but to accept Eleanor's invitation."

Lily frowns, "Yes, well, I wanted us to have a family Thanksgiving, and Charles is family."

"Okay, fine, but I don't see why Chuck couldn't just eat with us and see Blair later. I mean, why subject us having to make polite conversation with the Waldorfs?" Dan shudders.

"Because he's Chuck?" Jenny guesses.

"Chuck wouldn't have agreed to that." Eric informs him, ignoring Jenny. "Sorry Mom, but given the choice to eat with us or with Blair..."

"Blair wins every time. Yes, darling, I am aware." Lily says, looking slightly saddened.

Dan sighs, resigning himself to an awkward and uncomfortable dinner.

"Oh, come on guys," Eric laughs, "it won't be that bad."

"Easy for you to say, they _like_ you." Rufus replies. Lily glares at him, so he mutters an apology.

"Eleanor is actually pretty okay, once you get to know her." Jenny says. "And Dan, even you agreed that Blair isn't as bad as everyone makes her out to be. Likewise with Chuck."

Dan scoffs, but otherwise makes no comment.

"And Blair's Dad is pretty cool." Eric nods, "You'll see, it'll be fun."

"At least Serena and Nate will be there," Rufus claps Dan on the shoulder as Lily presses the button for the elevator. "You'll have somebody to talk to."

"Speaking of which, where is Serena?" Jenny asks. "I haven't seen her at all today."

Lily frowns, "She didn't come home last night, I'm assuming she stayed at Blair's."

The doors open and they walk into the sitting room. "Hello?" Lily calls. "Anybody home?"

"Lily," Eleanor rushes out of the dining room, "Rufus. How lovely to see you all." She kisses Rufus on the cheek and hugs Lily, taking the offered bottle of wine from Dan.

"Thank you, really you shouldn't have." Eleanor says, ushering them to sit down. "Sit, sit. Make yourselves comfortable. Dinner will be in a few minutes, Harold's just finishing the last minute details."

"Oh," Lily smiles fondly, "I have so missed his cooking."

"Yes, well, last I saw Blair and Chuck were helping, so if anybody gets poisoned, I think we know who the culprits are." Eleanor laughs, taking their coats and handing them to Dorota.

"That's reassuring," Dan mutters, wincing as Jenny elbows him.

"Chuck? Cooking?" Eric raises his eyebrows. "Seriously?"

Blair snorts as she walks into the room, Eleanor looks at her gratefully and takes her leave. "If you call standing around and making snide comments cooking, then yes. Hey E." She ruffles his hair affectionately. "Mrs Bass, Mr. Humphrey." Her lip curls. "Cabbage Patch."

"Satan." Dan returns.

Blair narrows her eyes, "Funny." Her gaze turns to Jenny and she looks her over approvingly. "Not bad, Little J. Lose the raccoon eyes and you might just look fashionable."

Jenny rolls her eyes, "Nice to see you too, Blair."

Blair grants her a smile. "How's my former kingdom? I trust there is still some form of hierarchy established?"

"Of course." Jenny assures her, "And you'll be happy to know that you're a legend in the girls eyes."

"Queens are always most revered after they're gone." Blair shrugs happily. "Take Lady Diana for example."

"Wasn't she a princess?"

Blair looks at Dan in annoyance. "I meant in principal, Humphrey."

Lily clears her throat, interjecting before a fight could break out. "Blair, did Serena stay over last night? She never called, and I just assumed..."

"Serena?" Blair asked innocently, "Of course she did. She must have just forgotten to call, you know what she's like."

At that exact moment a loud shriek of laughter sounded in the kitchen, followed by a loud crash.

Lily's looks at her suspiciously, "Yes. I do."

Blair laughs nervously, subconsciously playing with her necklace. "Well, I should probably go and check on dinner. Please, make yourselves at home. Cyrus and Roman should be out to join you any minute."

"I think I'll come with you," Eric falls into step with her, "Chuck's right, you know, your eyes really don't match your mouth when you're lying."

Blair glowered at him, "I wouldn't have to lie if your sister could keep her impulses in check. She's drunk for yet another Thanksgiving."

Eric shrugs noncommittally, "Can't argue with tradition. Whoa..." His eyes widen at the mess into which they have just walked.

There is cream splattered over everything, as Serena holds the still spinning whisk at arms length. A broken vase filled with Blair's favorite peonies is at Harold's feet, his face and shirt covered in half-whipped dairy. Nate is clutching his head, complaining about loud noises, oblivious to the fact that Serena has now discarded the hand-held machine and is now busy coating his blonde locks in cream, alternating strokes and movements until his hair is styled in a white faux-Mohawk.

Chuck too, has not escaped the chaos, and is busy wiping cream from his forehead, as he glares evilly at his adoptive-sister. "Sleep with your eyes open." He advises her, throwing everyone involved dirty looks.

Blair lets out a wail, and begins to bang her head against Eric's shoulder as he pats her hair comfortingly and tries not to laugh.

"Busy day?" He ventures.

Chuck grits his teeth, throwing his towel to the ground with a snarl. "I was perfectly happy being an only child, but no, my father has to leave me _a_ _family_ as a parting gift."

Eric rolls his eyes, "And here was me thinking he left you billions. Not to mention a flair for clothing." He indicates Chuck's present outfit, which, by normal standards, could be labeled eccentric. At best.

Chuck's mouth quirks up in a half-smile. "Actually that was my mother." He looks at Blair, "You're going to give yourself concussion if you don't stop that."

"Good," She retorts, "maybe then I'll wake up to find that this has all just been one horrible nightmare."

Harold looks at her reassuringly, "Don't worry, darling, I'll get these two cleaned up." He glances down at his shirt. "And myself as well. If I'm not back in ten minutes make sure you take the pie out of the oven, won't you?" He leads the two blonds upstairs, leaving the three brunettes (two of them natural) to their own devices.

"This is a disaster and we haven't even started eating." Blair says miserably, sitting down at the table and burying her head in her arms.

Chuck sighs, and walks over to her, signaling to Eric that he should leave the room. Eric obliges, following the trail of laughter and cream to the second floor.

"It's not a disaster." He tells her, crouching down next to her. "So Serena's a little drunk, and Nate's a little hungover. Who cares? That happens almost every year."

"No," Blair shakes her head, lifting her head to meet his gaze. "You don't understand. Today was supposed to be perfect. It was supposed to be better than every other Thanksgiving ever."

"You say that every year." He reminds her.

She lets out a watery laugh. "Yes, but this year it's different. There's no reason why it can't be. Last year I was so against breaking tradition and going to the restaurant with Cyrus' family, that I spent the whole of the day wandering the streets with Dorota. The year before, Serena and I were fighting, I got into a huge fight with Eleanor, and I ate dinner in a cafe in Brooklyn," she wrinkles her nose in disgust, "and the year before that, Serena was drunk, yet again, and my mother was keeping a diary of every single thing that I ate." She looks at him, and promptly hit him. "You're laughing! I'm pouring my heart out here, and you're laughing?"

He chuckles, "You sure haven't had a lot of luck with Thanksgivings for it to be your favorite holiday, Waldorf."

She huffs, "Shut up. Remind me never to tell you anything ever again."

"Fine by me," he shrugs, examining his nails nonchalantly.

A few seconds pass. She is so obviously waiting for him to ask, but he won't give her the pleasure.

"Bass!" Her hand slaps his wrist. "Aren't you the least bit interested to know why this Thanksgiving was going to be perfect."

"Not really, but I'm sure that you're going to tell me anyway."

"Fine then, I won't."

Pause.

"You really don't want to know?"

He looks at her, before saying mockingly, "Please, _do_ enlighten me. Why is today so special?"

"Today was _special_ because it's our first real holiday spent as a couple, Chuck. Did it not occur to you, that I might want to remember it fondly, and not as the horror of Thanksgivings past?" She looks hurt, and he can't help but soften when he looks into her eyes.

"You are..." He struggles for the right words, "Such a _drama queen_. Has it not occurred to _you_, that this is one of the first Thanksgivings that I've spent in _America_? Let alone with a _family_? That alone makes it _special_ in my book."

"You were here last year."

He snorts, "Last year doesn't count." She looks at him in confusion, so he clarifies. "It doesn't count when your family is a sham, and you spend Thanksgiving in Brooklyn, convincing your best friend to turn in his father."

Blair's face pales as she remembers all the dramas that she had missed last year. "Nate's dad was arrested last year. That's why he went along with Serena when she wanted to party. And Carter broke up with Serena, that's why she lost it."

Chuck nods, "Part of him probably just wanted to forget. And as for Serena... even without Baizen, does she really need an excuse?"

She laughs, as he meant her to, but his face is serious when he says next, "Blair, you don't have to try to make this day perfect because a part of you is worried that it will be our only holiday together. I'm not going anywhere," he swallows, "so you had better start planning what we're going to do for Christmas, because somehow I doubt that I'll be spending it surrounded by whores in Bangkok, or partying it up in Monaco."

The next thing he knows, her arms are around his neck, and her lips are against his, and he is forced to stand or risk them both falling. She pushes him back against the counter, her lips never leaving his, and tangles her hands in his hair.

He is vaguely aware that both their families are just in the next room, and that her father could come down the stairs at any given moment and stumble upon them, and that he still has some cream in his hair.

(He vows to get Serena back for that later by leaking certain secrets of hers to a certain gossip blog)

But, he really didn't care. And besides, if someone did catch them, it is she who would be mortified. Making out with girls in kitchens while their fathers are around is par for the course for Chuck Bass.

"Love you." He whispers raggedly, lifting her up onto the counter, after making sure it was clean first.

(If he'd gotten cream on her new dress then she'd have drowned him in the Hudson, favorite holiday or not)

Like every time he says those words to her, she lights up. A wide, beaming smile splits her face and her eyes glimmer. Wordlessly she presses her lips to his again, and she shows him just how strongly she feels in return.

Suddenly, she breaks away, and her face crumples. "Do you smell smoke?"

His gaze falls on the oven, and then back to her eyes, and then to the clock. He swears, and she hops down off of the counter and practically sprints to the oven to rescue her beloved pie.

Switching everything off, she opens the oven door, wincing as the smoke alarm sounds, and choking as a thick wave of black smoke hits her. She grabs the oven-mitts and takes out the now blackened pumpkin pie, dropping it onto the counter and slamming the oven door shut.

Together, they silently look at the pie, ignoring everyone who has rushed into the kitchen to make sure that they were okay.

Blair can sense every eye on her as she stares at her favorite tradition, charred and ruined. It had literally gone up in flames.

"Some people like it crispy?" Chuck offers, and the scene is so very ridiculous that Blair can't help but keel over in laughter.

The kitchen is a mess, Serena and Nate are drunk, her pie is ruined, Dorota's pissed at her, she's forced to spend Thanksgiving with the Humphreys... But she loves it, because for once everything feels right.

Nothing has changed since the previous years; her and Serena are still cons

* * *

tantly on/off; her father still lives in France; her mother still travels too much; she has so many fathers that she doesn't know what to do with them all; and she herself is still bitchy, over-dramatic, and neurotic.

The one thing that has changed is her relationship with Chuck, because even if they were kind of together for the past two Thanksgivings, nothing can compare to what it is like being with him officially and knowing that he loves her and that he'll be there by her side next year.

That being said, she's still Blair Waldorf, and once her laughter has subsided she can't help but say;

"Next year we're hiring caterers. And if one of you puts a single toe out of line and ruins my perfect Thanksgiving, so help me..."

* * *

**The Perfect Thanksgiving (Dream): the perfect familial gathering where everyone will do exactly as told, and everything will be flawless.**

* * *

**The Perfect Thanksgiving (Reality): a merging of the UES/Brooklyn, copious amounts of alcohol, last-minute shopping expeditions, declarations of love, a new apartment, burnt pumpkin pie, and the realization that maybe perfection is overrated after all.**

* * *

**R&R**


End file.
